A Blemish in the Brain
by Kaleidoscope Of Tales
Summary: Mount Massive Asylum takes anything its dark tendrils can reach, and all Joseph Oda has is his sanity. What begins as a mere investigation into rumours of patient abuse becomes an exploration into his psyche- and the Variant Sebastian shouldn't be anything more than a maniac, but then again, Joseph shouldn't be anything less than sane.
1. Chapter 1

**_Prologue: Alice Down the Rabbit-Hole_**

* * *

 _he's not a perfect man, but it's all he's ever been. he's whole. he's 'happy', or whatever that word means anymore. he loves- his family and his friends and his lovely loving little life. he pretends like he's not a man standing on the edge of something all too high up, waiting for the moment he can try to fly. waiting to fall. he has to turn his neck to see the many beautiful things in his life. he'll have to snap it to understand the ugly._

* * *

Joseph Oda is the most sane man he knows. He curses infrequently, works a well-paying job at the KCPD, married happily six years ago and has a picture-perfect family. He's a 'pretty thing', looking years under his actual age of thirty-three, and the lack of drink and smoke in his life has lead him to content and good health. His co-workers describe him as 'pleasant' and 'amiable', his wife thinks him flawless, and his daughter believes he's a superhero.

Joseph Oda, of all people, should not be entering Mount Massive Asylum. He should not be shoved forward, crass and roughly, once the formidable gates are closed and the media's judging eye falls away to distance. He should not be sneered at by garishly crude faces, human but grotesquely so, to 'hurry the fuck up'. Because, A), he has and knows his damn rights, and B), Joseph Oda is not insane.

He almost cannot bring himself to believe what's happening. The place looks like it has been ripped right out of goddamn Hogwarts, though there is no laughter or childhood fondness lingering in the grey wasteland. Imposing and colourless, a new unease troubles his chest; rough and concerned. The ground is uneven and stone, and soon they veer into the grass, passing the main entrance with careless purpose. The guards don't walk him through the lobby, but rather continue to force him through the courtyard toward a subtle door peaking out behind fern and foliage. He supposes the lobby is just for show- a pretty little doorway to a homely asylum that, in reality, is likely a direct 'copy and paste' of his worst nightmares. Joseph doesn't struggle against the guards though. KCPD higher-up, Brown, had warned him what they do to scufflers here, and he isn't going to risk it for the sake of his measly dignity.

He's pushed through the dark opening and into the main building, which is no more pleasant looking than its exterior. It's an entirely new world, plashed in greys and browns and shadowed corners, without the mask of the warm open sky. It seems to be nothing more than many winding hallways, yet the sound of his tired feet dragging against the smooth stone floor is always rhythmic, relaxing him slightly through the tension that originates in the armed men surrounding him. One, in contrast, has no weapons- but Joseph doubts that the guns rumbling on the man's arms would do any less damage, and flinches away. He should be ashamed of his fear, but now it just seems natural.

Ignoring his gaze, the guards wordlessly escort him further through the maze of halls. They seem to be at the very back of the asylum, continually going sideways through each twist and turn. He's ushered forward onto some wooden steps, and pushed until his feet recall the complicated workings of 'stairs'. As they head higher and further into the asylum, Joseph feels an irksome regret tingle in his mind. He never wanted this, but, damn, if Arnold Brown wasn't a convincing speaker than Joseph didn't know one. The older authority had been quick to caution him on the mechanics of such a place- saying, almost too cheerfully, that it's a 'cesspool of the fucked up- well, that and the poor damn vegetables they call 'patients''. He had reminded him that it would be dangerous- Joseph likely wouldn't leave the same man. Hell, he'd be lucky if he could leave by the end of it, and that his happy ending didn't come in the form of Mount Massive Asylum being the madhouse he really needed.

This isn't like when he was twelve, and found entertainment in theatre and exploration. This isn't like when he was fifteen, and hid his true self behind the guise of video games. And this sure as hell shouldn't be like what he is, as an ageing man with a family of his own, treating the warping of his (very intact) sanity as an escapade he'll remember fondly in years to come.

Adjusting his glasses, Joseph wishes he hadn't always enjoyed an adventure.

* * *

They pass so many cells. People, who don't particularly resemble 'people' but rather the hollow skin left over, watch him as he's lead toward door 499. He can't quite recall how long the journey to his new 'home' took, but the Male Ward is inconveniently separated from just about every other area. It's a sprawling unit, dotted with small rooms for the more stable patients, along with long expanses dubbed the 'male hospital wards' for those deemed a little too lively. Joseph is deposited into a slight cell, with little more than a simple rickety bed and dusty table (and a rather grimy looking toilet, but Joseph is already horrified as it is). He sits, then, mourning the loss of blood-flow to his feet after the extensive walking. The guards lock the door, which has no handle from the inside but instead, in reparation, an intrusive window in the whitewash door.

One man, who had been following the guards dutifully as they left, stands out more than most. He doesn't don the typical blue security uniform, but rather wears a professional black suit and spotless white shirt. Joseph wonders how he didn't notice the man before, or if he had only appeared recently- approaching them from a patient's room, leaving the shell alone. He doesn't quite like the thought, shaking it out of his head as the guards footsteps grow silent with distance. Relief washes over him, and he feels the taut agitation in his fists loosen into repose. But somehow, as though hearing his calmed thoughts beneath the frenzy of others', the man stops, turning around to gaze at Joseph through the box-like window. He's handsome, he supposes, but in an oddly repulsive way that Joseph can't quite understand.

"A detective," he notes suddenly, not breaking eye-contact. "How interesting, Mr Oda! Your files..." he glances down, scanning through what Joseph assumes are his papers. "... yes, very interesting," he repeats slowly, expression revealing nothing. Joseph contemplates whether he's just another pawn to the man, but something cold in his chest knows he's always been. There's just a casual cruelty to this character's eyes, one that makes him want to spit in spite while resisting an urge to to hide himself and all his thoughts. But he should respond. He wants to.

Joseph hasn't spoken a word in hours, and wastes them in his theatrics. Some part of him knows the man doesn't care whether he appears lucid or not, but something crawls beneath his skin, reminding him that his sanity is a secret advantage, best hidden for now. He doesn't ask who the man is, because Brown had mentioned a high-ranking official and this stranger fits the 'asshole with privilege' description quite well. He doesn't ask why 'Jeremy Blaire' is acting so very volatile himself, because Joseph isn't stupid or suicidal, and Brown had insisted that the officials here were the ones who truly belonged behind bars. Instead, he mutters- "investigations take their tolls on tired men."

Blaire's eyes almost sparkle with something- something bright, ugly, and crude. He laughs. "Imagine," he calls the guards waiting impatiently for him. "If we could fix a man of the law!"

Maybe it's because Joseph is intensely disturbed by the amused display, or maybe it's because the scene is reminding him of the horror stories of his youth, but he speaks again, smiling now. Fake. "All work and no play-"

Blaire finishes the phrase for him, though his grin is all sharp teeth and malice, "- makes Joseph a dull boy." He smirks, then, but it's the sort that burns with time and Joseph looks away. "A little warning, detective," laughter. "You might not like what you discover here..."

He pulls the key to cell 499 from its hole and, still sporting a shit-eating grin, knocks it sharply against the glass window with pending emphasis. The sound is serrated and wretched, regardless of how very ordinary it sounds. As the piercing force fades to echo, new noises thicken the air in Joseph's cell. Inhuman and coarse, shrieks and desperate cries leak into the room like black liquid, and Joseph finds it hard to drown out. It's not natural, but rather bestial and worn with time, more like a howl than a shout. It reflects from wall to wall, louder with each metallic resonance.

"Meat! Wants meat! Wants meat! **MEAT** **!** "

"I am my father's hand! _I am my father's fist!"_

"This is the experiment! THIS IS THE EXPERIMENT!"

He covers his ears, groaning slightly. Fuck, he thinks wearily, Brown had most definitely been right. It truly was a madhouse. He curls up on the bare mattress, so bony a material he can feel the aged boards below it. It's harsh and cold, but he still has his clothes (for now) and his novel suit vest is the closest thing he has to a blanket. The duvet offered by the asylum is ratty and rough. He shivers. A door clangs open, far away, and the thump of desperate restrained limbs against the glossy floor makes Joseph shudder achingly.

"Kill me! Go ahead, fucker! Go ahead and murder me, and see what happens. You think I'm scared of anything? I've been fucked in the brain by Nazis, you goddamn pansy. What could you do to me? Huh?!"

The conversation is soon muffled by others' screams. "Not alone! No more! Please!"

"Kill me... kill me..."

"What's happening?" someone yells. "Is this real? _God no!_ "

A cackle. "What's the experiment the dead would perform on the living? I'll give you a hint. It's still happening! The experiment is **still happening**!"

Joseph closes his eyes. He won't sleep tonight- not to the lullabies of broken men.

* * *

 _(he won't fall to sleep, but he'll certainly fall)_


	2. Chapter 2

**_Chapter 1: Between Heaven and Hell_**

* * *

 _there are nightmares, but there always have been. they're dark, dark like this little room in a big hospital. hospitals are for people who want to get well. **he** doesn't want to. he closes his eyes for mere moments and all he can hear is his breathing, intense and harsh and loud. he doesn't like the sound. they don't either. maybe they can help it stop._

* * *

There is no clock in Joseph's cell. He wonders if it is a safety precaution, but the reasons he imagines for such provision makes him writhe in discomfort. There's nothing much to do, so he stares at the walls as though they have secrets to tell- and, in a neurotic locus like Mount Massive, they do. Though the aching glassy white of the walls does its job as a sheeny mask, it reveals the slightest of blemishes just above the head of his bed. It's a dull blotch of merlot and sangria, worn with careful washing that didn't quite guise the stain.

Joseph Oda turns his gaze from the bloody varnish, ignoring the tremble in his hands as he fiddles anxiously with the buttons in his vest. There is something incredibly wrong about this place, he decides as he pulls the raggedy blanket closer, as though to shield the cold that wasn't there.

The incessant chatter and whispers of his distressed neighbours is unending. They appear to have quietened against the weight of night, and only a few taxing screams escape the jaded cells.

"No more bleeding," someone whimpers, sounding all too close to Joseph's own door. "Please..."

Another releases a rowdy laugh. "Look! Look! More blood for the experiment!"

His hands shake towards his ears, trying in faux calm to block out the noise. Somehow, a quiet hiss of a voice carries into his cell. "Just shut up, and let me think for a minute!" He tries to ignore the heavy sob. "... Quiet... Ahh... Quiet... _Ahh_!"

Joseph hopes this is a nightmare, and wrenches his pillow to veil his head.

* * *

He's trying to enjoy a breakfast in bed (sans cutlery, and with way too much 'glop') when he's interrupted by the stridency of his door peeling open, a sound that almost seems sticky. Dismissing the guard stationed behind him, the doctor enters near slovenly, moving to sit in the chair by Joseph's bed. He has a clipboard under one arm and a soft package in the other. His expression is too polite to be a sneer, but too lax to be a smile. His face looks discoloured by stress and ceaseless thought, so much so that the shade of the blotches match that of his umber beard and balding head. He reminds Joseph of a weasel, but he keeps that thought to himself.

"Hello Mr Oda," the man greets him, pulling his clipboard onto his lap. "My name Marcelo Jimenez, and I hope to help you with your various problems." Tactfully, he offers his hand, but takes a moment to notice Joseph's minor confusion. "Ah," he chuckles slightly. "You aught know in advance that there is a guard outside that unlocked door, and that I myself am far from unarmed."

Joseph takes his hand awkwardly, shaking it lightly. "I don't have any problems," he tells him with a diplomatic frown. "Though I did find some blood in my room."

Jimenez leans forward, tapping his pen against his knee agreeably. "Yours?"

"No. At least, I don't think so," he bites his lip. "Could I move rooms?"

"I'm afraid, my boy, that you'll find that in most rooms," the doctor smiles sympathetically. He glances at the papers. "SchizoAffective Disorder, Misophonia-" he pauses, looking up questioningly.

Joseph feels almost fraudulent as he answers. "I don't mind most sounds- but some," even thinking about the disorder he spent weeks researching makes him shiver. At least his own contempt doesn't need to be faked. "Screaming, crying..."

"Then why did you become a detective?" Jimenez asks curiously. "Surely you would have to hear those sounds far more often?"

"I wanted to make it stop."

The doctor pops the lid off his pen, and Joseph remembers to flinch. "And the hallucinations?"

"They usually attack together," he says quietly. "But there's nothing wrong with me. People shouldn't make those noises. Then everything would be okay."

"We tried to place you in a quieter ward, without resorting to solitary confinement, as you appear to have a very mild case of Misophonia," he rustles open the package, rooting out two grey pieces. "These are ear-plugs: they should help with the raucous."

"Thank you," Joseph hates to think that he'll actually need them here. As if on cue, a patient begins howling about cats.

"Said we shouldn't hurt you. Is what he said. But when the cat's away... Hmm... Mmm..." they laugh wretchedly, coughing and hacking as something thumps against Joseph's cell wall.

A sharp pain erupts somewhere he can't quite decipher but hurts though it shouldn't, because Joseph is lying and none of this is real, but his hands clamp over his mouth to suppress a scream and **everything goes black**

* * *

When he comes to, Doctor Jimenez has remained at his bedside.

"Don't worry," he says, reading Joseph's horrified mind. "It wasn't an attack. I thought it best to knock you out just in case, however."

"Fuck," escapes his mouth. "What kind of shitty hospital doesn't have sound-proofed walls, dammit!"

Silence. Jimenez slowly chuckles, though now it seems in obloquy. "You're no special snowflake, Mr Oda. Please don't assume that your becoming a variant makes you any more important than the staff- after all, we are just trying to fix you."

And now, when Joseph reaches to punch the man, at least he knows this theatric is real.

* * *

He has to spend a lot of time thinking that day, because Jimenez has deemed him volatile and not stable enough for further activity. As the other patients are herded away to somewhere called the 'Vocational Block', Joseph stares at the blotch is his wall and the new one he added using Jimenez's teeth. He had almost been impressed with himself when the hit unlocked a browning canine, but it lead him to wonder now how many punches the man has received to unhook it so much.

Unfortunately, his pride was quickly smothered with disgust, leaving him alone to observe the new blood on the wall.

Joseph has always had a good sense of control over his feelings. His composure is often well-kept, regardless of whatever bastard is attempting to throw him over the edge. He supposes he shouldn't be surprised. He's stressed out, tired, and in a goddamn asylum. If that isn't excuse enough, the drugs slugging about in his system probably are.

He wishes Brown had given him a more definite escape, rather than the nonchalant wave of his hand and a hum of 'maybe a month or so'. What did 'or so' mean? A day had been torment enough, he thinks tiredly to himself. The warm weight of maudlin rests itself upon his shoulders and Joseph tries to sleep.

* * *

He still doesn't know the time, but his stomach churns with hunger and the room darkens to the night. He realises that his decision to hit Jimenez has affected his eating rights and feels his anger fuel. It's petty and foolish but now he wants to punch the man again.

Sleep is becoming redundant, so he pulls out the (admittedly helpful) ear-phones. Whatever calm he had retained is immediately pierced by shrieks and hollers, impaling his ears like something sharp.

"Newbie didn't paint with me," his neighbour is whining unremittingly. "I have white, and black and red- lots of red shades, yes..."

"Red like blood!" another sings in conversation. "Lovely colour, lovely like the sound of my lovely piano... miss the lovely..."

Someone scoffs. "How do you play without your fingers, Quincey?"

"Not important," the pianist responds easily. "Only lost my pointing fingers- they're the least important. My other eight do quite well alone."

"How'd you lose them," a new inmate asks. It's shaky, sleepless and unsure- lacking the drugged confidence of the others. "And c-can you find them?"

Quincey hesitates. "Well," his voice sounds small suddenly, as though worried of who else could hear him. "They tried to fix me, little Leslie. Not with bandages and pretty wraps, no... I haven't dreamed in years, and I remember dreams to be lovely... pretty... I liked dreams, a lot. But these dreams were different. They made things blurry and disfigured and they made me something worse- it was like a nightmare. No one likes nightmares."

"Nightmares," Leslie repeats in a high-pitched squall, like he was attempting to portray his contempt of the word through its name.

"Where do your fingers come into play, Quince?" the irritable man queries, returning to the exchange. His tone sounds lighter, as though he understands Quincey's loss. Whatever that may be.

"Rotted away, Scotch," he replies shortly. "Some lose their souls, others their skin. Things that matter to them. Special things- yes, the lovely, pretty things that make us look human. Being fixed means being broken. Chris Walker loses his mind, I lose my fingers. It's a fair price."

"Is it?" Joseph questions before he can help himself. "Is it worth it?"

"Newbie!" the painter squeaks excitedly. He falters slightly. "You is the newbie, right? Not just another rat in the wall?"

In confused response, Joseph says a quick- "I'm not a rat, anyway."

"That's good," a deeper voice murmurs. "Fuckers like those rats should drown in their own damn piss, disgusting creatures... Dennis is a fucking rat," his tone changed, softening into something almost feminine. "Yeah Dennis, how the _fuck_ ain't you dead yet?"

"Leave Dennis alone, Timmy," Leslie whispers, but the words echo without lease. "Dennis alone. Alone."

"I-I-It's o-okay, L-Leslie. T-T-Timmy is just s-s-s-s-stressed..." A harsh laugh. "Of course I'm fucking stressed with a retard like you around, Dennis. A better question: why the fuck ain't you dead yet?"

"Dennis has Dissociative Identity Disorder," Scotch explains, and Joseph can almost hear him rolling his eyes. "Has his father, grandfather and brother trapped inside his head. And they're all assholes."

"You shoulda died a long-ass fucking time ago, Mr. Shittin'-Scotch D!" the grandfather yells. Timmy continues for him, a smirk lacing each word, "Pa's right, Scotch. We don't know your real name but we sure as hell heard you trying to off yourself that night, fucktard. Wished that you'd succeeded- fuck, would that be a first, love!"

"Dennis, control yourself," Quincy reprimands quietly. He sounds tired now. "Let's sleep. Think of something you want to do tomorrow- it'll be Friday, remember? We can do something lovely together. I'll play the piano for Leslie and Timmy can make his family a pretty picture. Scotch can keep trying to blackmail the guards, and newbie can do whatever the hell he wants. What's the name, kid?"

"Joseph."

"Where's your fuckin' Mary then?" Timmy cackles. "Sleep well in your manger, little christ. I hope those 'ittle sides don't close in on you... bursts of pink and white and red..."

Joseph turns in his bed, ignoring the loud creak it emitted. His fingers quiver against the duvet, and he reaches for his ear-plugs again. The last thing he hears is Dennis arguing with himself, sobbing and screaming.

"It'd be better, Dennis! Death is release! Better killed by a bed than fucked in the head! They'll tear us apart, the lord has no place here..."

* * *

The next afternoon, Joseph has the opportunity to meet the men in the cells surrounding him. They're all told to cross their arms and join the lines of other patients, and walk calmly to the Vocational Block.

The journey feels long and they're refused the chance to speak, but Joseph watches his neighbours fall in line in front of him. The jagged scars on one man's hand identify Quincy, whose eyes are hung with wine-coloured bags. His head is also painted with cuts and eggplant bruises, but he holds it high. Another man of bigger build falls in and out of stride behind him, whispering to himself and sometimes losing control- screeching or crying, yelling insults. One guard notices Joseph's well-acted signs of distress, and has his partner hold Dennis still as he wraps a tattered rag around his mouth. Tears stream down Dennis' flustered face as it flushed red with anger. He slinks back into the queue, loose-limbed and wary.

Joseph tries not meet his eyes as he pushes the bubbling ache of guilt back down his throat. The guard nods at him, noting the badge that still adorns his chest. He'd had to hand over his beloved suit vest, but the nurse who took it from him returned it in a box. He keeps the box under his bed, just in case Jimenez gets any ideas, but it somehow works to comfort him. He smiles briefly at the guard as a protective hand reaches to touch his badge again- a reminder that he's more than a maniac, and that he's here for a reason. His other fingers play mindlessly with a loose seam on his jumpsuit. He's already counted four unidentifiable stains on it: all red.

That morning, Quincy had explained that the Vocational Block is the patients' refuge. It caters to those who love music, sewing, painting and writing. There's a basketball court out back and the sportier inmates play organised games to release their potentially violent energy. It serves as a method of distracting the patients as well as giving the doctors a break. The section of the Male Ward Joseph is located in is known as Territory 4, and they are given three hours to spend on various activities on Thursdays and Fridays.

Flanked with guards, no patient dares act out. They move in careful synchronisation through the long hallways. As they grow closer, Dennis' face glows with a beam hidden behind the rag. He looks genuinely overjoyed at the thought of his art, and it is in this mirth that Joseph sees something carious- a darkness that has long since surpassed the innocence of the young man's smile.

Even the light-hearted activities the asylum provides seem like cruel compensation to what these people have lost. It takes the tired authority of Quincy and Dennis' struggling smile to remind Joseph of why he's here, and it's the thought that either could be somewhere better that offers him new motivation.

Maybe he can't save these men - who are, if Joseph will be honest with himself, very disturbed- but perhaps he can stop whatever new batch Mount Massive plans on baking in the head. Quincy seemed so very normal, regardless of his liking for 'pretty' words- when had he become a 'variant'? What made these variants different from other patients? Joseph finds his suspicions (and utter confusion) only growing the more he learns.

When they reach the Vocational Block it is rather detached from the rest of the facility. Every hall Joseph observes leading to it is uninhabited, but for some art rooms and libraries. He gravitates toward the small book section, glancing at the titles with new distaste. 'The Bible', 'Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde' and 'Frankenstein' are the only ones he recognises. Novels such as 'The Blessing of Submission', 'Mount Massive: A Revised History' and 'Fae Tales of Olde' adorn the shelves as well, though he pointedly avoids them as he looks through other names. He eventually settles in a comfortable corner, opposite the entrance and mostly hidden from sight. He replaces his ear-plugs once more, finding the mufflers all the more convenient when they're not for show, and allows himself to become lost in the tale of Jekyll and Hyde.

What seems like hours pass before Joseph is interrupted. Standing before him is Dennis, who has long since torn off the masking rag to reveal a toothy grin. His sleeves are rolled up around his muscular arms but he sways on his heels against the carpet like a child, barely restraining the bounce in his step.

"Come see my painting, Joseph!" Timmy orders cheerfully, sending the book in his grip an abhorrent glance. He grabs his hand and pulls him out of the library- an action that Joseph doesn't necessarily condone but also would prefer not addressing. He watches the way Timmy troops forward with an undeniable purpose to his steps. It's not quite arrogant, but rather a broken sort of confidence that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Painting's for pansies- grow a dick, Timmy," a harsher voice mocks. "Shut the _fuck_ up, Pa."

From the moment Joseph sets foot in the art room he notices an even larger change in Timmy. The man is smiling like a little boy, eyes scanning every piece that the other inmates are working on with something like respect.

"Some fucking good shit today," he grumbles through his grin.

"I'm sure yours will be," Joseph struggles to think of a word safe enough for use, "amazing."

Timmy smirks. He stops beside a large, propped up canvas, watching for the other's reaction with an expression of sheer exuberance and youth. His pride is buried beneath the excitement shining in his eyes, and Joseph steps forward in fascination to comprehend the painting.

Timmy hadn't been lying the previous night- the work is all reds, whites and blacks. It's formed on sharp streaks and crude lines, carefully careless in elegance. It seems to depict a rose, with petals just as dangerous as its thorns. The flower is barbed, with sawtooth outlines still visible beneath the bloody shading. The thorns aren't green, or any bright colour to contrast the gaudy red, but are tinged black with light white sheens reflecting from some unseen sun. More scarlet trails leak from the rose, falling slowly down its stem as though wounded. Joseph wonders if this work was all Timmy- or if it's intended to portray the mangled remnants of his splintered mind.

"It's beautiful," he says instead, closing his gaping mouth. "You're a real artist."

"T-T-Thanks," Dennis mutters, bowing his head. "Fuck off Dennis! Don't take this moment from me!" Irked, Timmy turns to face him, though still radiating a type of triumph. "I wanted to make something for Scotch," he admits, red dusting his cheeks. "He asked for a lily, but I thought a rose would suit him more."

With a warmed heart, Joseph decides to answer the silent question, "I'm certain he'll love it."

"He'd fucking better."

* * *

 _trying to sleep, he imagines that rose- not quite rooted in ground, but rather trapped between the earth and sky, as living things aught be. because, after all, if heaven is in the sky, then surely its opposite - earth - must be lost in hell?_


	3. Chapter 3

**_Chapter 2: The Rats in the Walls_**

* * *

 _there are no nightmares that night, and that scares him. his dreams should be plagued with horrors and tragedies, but cheerful banter masks the poison in the air. but peace is brief and his content is sensed and detested. people cannot fix him- his worth is solely based on his ability to break others. and he will._

* * *

Joseph doesn't remember telling Timmy how he missed having an alarm-clock, but he must have and the inmate has taken the wistful thought very seriously.

"Ring-a-fucking-ding-dong, bitchface!" the artist crows at a godawful hour. A groan escapes Joseph's mouth as he swivels drunkenly in his bed, twisting the sheets in sleepless knots.

"Timmy," he hears himself complain, voice thick with fatigue. "Why now?"

"Fuck, manger-boy, I didn't think you wanted no damn specific time! Shittin' hell, warn me next time!" Timmy retorts cheerfully, somehow functioning irritably well without rest. "T-T-Timmy just wants to h-h-help out," Dennis murmurs softly, and his brother doesn't argue with the testimony.

"Shatter my ear-drums later next time," Joseph manages to hum, surprisingly lenient. "I'm putting in my ear-plugs, and I dare you to try and beat those life-savers."

Scotch swears heavily, suddenly awake. A loud shuffling ruffled from his cell as the man struggles warily to rise, desperate to stop what is sure to be pure chaos. "Oh, fuck- don't get him started-"

The buds succour his ears just as the hollering begins. Scotch's hopeless groan is the last he hears before silence reigns and Joseph can sleep again. He might even be smiling.

* * *

Morning is bitter-sweet. Or, it should be. They won't be leaving their cells today- instead, they'll sit listless on their beds and wait for the doctors to arrive. Joseph is ready for a dull day, consisting of sour numb and unneeded appointments. He doesn't, however, expect the piercing scream that erupts against his ear as soon as he removes the plugs. He certainly isn't prepared as his body thrashes in shock against the bed, convulsing before he regains his stolen breath.

"Leslie!" Scotch is calling, the crack in his voice wretchedly concerned. "What are they doing- _Leslie?_ "

The younger man continues shrieking, hoarse and high-pitched and harrowing. His cries are long and gut-wrenching, sharp despite their distance. Joseph can hear the familiar sound of soft limbs flailing against stone walls, with heavy **cracks** echoing with every bestial writhe away from reaching ghostly arms.

"Stay calm, Mr Withers," drones an all too placid tone, dull and uncaring as Leslie screeches in unfiltered trepidation. Joseph flinches as a slapping noise resounds, harsh and cruel. The howling ends, reduced to crippled sobs muffled quickly by invisible fabrics.

"Fuck!" Scotch yells into the new quiet, and Joseph listens as his fists thump against the soft cell walls in frantic punches. He imagines the blood smearing across the wall in the other man's hopelessness and feels his breath catch. "You can't take him away too! Give him back, you monsters! Give him back!"

Another door bays open, unlocked in quiet caution that's ear-splitting in meaning. His heart leads an enraged assault on his chest, pounding against it in angry derision. He itches to shine his badge in the doctors' faces and do his damnedest to help- but he can't. He's useless and trapped in his desolate little cell, alone and entirely impotent. His fists stiffen into taut balls and he hovers, languid, placing a hand against his door in unavailing yearning.

Dennis appears to feel no better, squawking in indignant fury with a tone that grinds itself into pulpy wrath. "Don't y'all fucking dare touch Scotch- I'll kill you all! Damn rats! Rats! _We'll kill the fucking vermin_!"

Quincy is silent. A broken image of a broken man flashes through Joseph's mind, as the inmate rocks back and forth, hugging his knees to his chest and humming lovely tunes that will forever be polluted by this horror. He wonders if the man is crying.

"I'm afraid you're dangerously upset at present," apologises an authority, mechanical in his damn-all demeanour. "For your own safety, we are going to have to administer a calming aid, alright? Warren, hand me the oral syringe."

"I'm not a fucking child! Let me see Leslie!"

"Please, open your mouth," a brief laugh. "'Scotch'. You skipped your nightly dose, didn't you?"

"Don't need shitty medication," Scotch hisses. "Take your damn haloperidol to someone who fucking needs it!"

"Restrain him," the doctor says simply. Joseph resists the urge to cover his ears and slump against the wall, instead forcing himself to continue listening as Sebastian struggles, flinging punches and ruthless kicks to no avail. "Thank you for your time, 'Scotch'," he sneers, and the patient's body collapsed against the rough floor with a crunch. "Just one last gift..."

A guard passes Joseph's little window, reverently carrying a long pointed syringe. Joseph can't hold the sudden rough cry that escapes his mouth- "Scotch! They've got drugs!"

But Scotch is wordless, his suffering ended with the sinking of a sharp syringe, nestled in his skin and released with painless numb.

The doctors leave and the guards return to their stations, but Joseph remains still. Well, not still. Nothing near motionless indeed, with restless hands consumed in crumbling tremors. His lungs deform into stone appendages, grotesque and heavy behind a cage of bone. Breathing is a chore, burdened by haunted ears and drooping eyes. He's so tired, but he cannot merely slink back to bed. It feels like simple duty to mourn what he surely does not understand, but his fear had been genuine and thus so is his new concern.

"Timmy?" he tries, ignoring what he's certain is a guard's sleepless gaze.

"Fuckin' what?" the man croaks, voice spent on soundless tears. He seems to notice his own brief weakness, hardening against his own malaise. "Dennis is a damn crybaby," he mutters fiercely. "But they'd better not have hurt Scotch, the shitheads."

Joseph wants to ask about the short-fused man as well, but bites back the question. "Where did they take Leslie?"

Timmy releases a disparaging snort, but no anger laces his tone. "Brought him where they take all the others. They took fucking Quincey there, too... it's a sore spot for 'im," his voice cracks slightly. The aforementioned man prevails in afflicted hush. "'N for a fucktonne of us, really, 'cos you never know who's next."

"What- what exactly do there do there?"

"Before you there was 'nother fella. Right ass he was, but he had his reasons. Used to talk the things he saw- the things they showed him," the inmate falters. His father takes over, "they do some damn nasty things in those fuckin' rooms. Ugly screens and tightass restraints. Said that the damn images they looked at endlessly were so horrific not a possum could un-see them."

"What kind of things?"

"I didn't ask," Timmy replies snidely. Joseph pictures his undoubtedly curled lip, so much so that it would roll to hide the distress in his eyes. "Why'd you fucking want to know? Some things are best left alone for a damn reason."

Joseph doesn't apologise, as not to aggravate the dissociative anymore. "Alright," he mumbles in return. He stands, returning to his bed in a tired stagger. "Night."

"Don't let the bugs bite."

* * *

Scotch wakes four hours later. Joseph half-expects him to wind into a tangent, spitting strings of worn-out curses and pacing furiously in his cell, but the man is silent.

"Scotch?" Timmy whispers. He has the advantage of neighbouring the other's cell, and has doubtlessly being listening dutifully for the inmate to stir. He sounds further away than usual, and Joseph assumes he is pressed against the wall in attempt for closeness. "Scotch, fucktard, are you okay?"

"Did they hurt you?" Joseph speaks up, disconcertingly curious. His worry for the man is almost drowned out by his own fear- that could have been **me**. It's selfish and callously immoral, but it's only human nature. He convinces himself it's just paranoia, staring at the blood on the wall.

"H-Hey, S-Scotch," Dennis tries, a little louder. "I k-know the drugs impair your senses a-a little, but we just need to k-k-know you're o-okay?"

Seconds pass and Joseph hears Timmy swear, and the groan of his mattress as the other sags back onto his bed. Then, a fleeting 'thump' against the floor. It took a moment for Joseph to process its meaning, and it made him sick to his stomach to think about it. Scotch certainly was awake- but he can't speak, hardly hears, and was rendered majorly immobile. Timmy leaps at the slightest sound, slamming his graceless feet against the floor as he rushes over to wall hiding Scotch from his sight.

"Fuck," he breathes, a deep rage settling in his throat. Joseph is almost glad of the borders separating them as he imagines what the inmate could do against the strain of anger. "I'll kill them all, Scotch. Wring 'em by the necks like fucking kits for slaughter! I swear on it- they'll right regret last night, the damn rats..."

"Scotch," comes Quincy's steady tone. Though the stability to his words sounds forced, balancing a subdued horror with cautious restraint. His composure is admirable, but Joseph knows from experience it's faked. "I'm-" his breath catches in sudden weakness, but he drives forward, "so, so sorry. I was feeble as a little mouse- a fucking rat even! I should've helped!" **bang "** I should have HELPED!"

"Don't y'all fucking dare!" Pa shouts, incensed. "Damn Scotch took a blow for us all tonight, you'd be best to thank him- not pity yeh'self until the deed's worthless, moron!"

Quincey stops, and the squelching of flesh against cell wall calms into gooey scars. "You're right," he murmurs, relaxing into the pain. "Scotch, you have all our gratitude. And Joseph," the detective rises his head in confusion. "As lovely as it is that your Misophonic agitations refrained from acting up during last night's bedlam, with your health and safety in mind, I'd recommend telling your doctors you heard nothing."

Joseph wipes the guilt from his face as a guard glances through his window, biting his lip. "Trust me," he says quietly, not quite lying. "It certainly did have a reaction."

"Ah," a pause. "I wish I had my piano... Au clair de la lune, on n'y voit qu'un peu..."

Timmy snorts, before continuing in a softer lull, "On chercha la plume, on chercha du feu."

"En cherchant d'la sorte, je n'sais c'qu'on trouva," Quincey hums.

"French?" Joseph interrupts, translations bouncing around in his head. Neither answer. "What is it, sorry?"

"Au Clair de la Lune," Timmy answers, and something resembling amusement fuels the words. "It's the end to an old French lullaby. Quincey learned it off Scotch, ages ago. Plays it for him all the time. It's so easy that they use it with beginners, so he's been drilling it into our fucking heads since."

"Mais je sais qu'la porte sur eux se ferma," finishes the pianist, sighing lightly. "It's such a pretty song," he confesses, "but I find it very sad."

Joseph blinks. "All I understood was that they were searching for things in the moonlight..."

"They were," Quincy agrees. "A pen and some light. They could hardly see in the night, and 'with all that looking, I don't know what was found'. The last line sounds quite harsh- 'but I do know that the door shut itself on them'. It's just a lovely little lullaby, but there's no happy-ending to it."

"They didn't let the little girl have a pen to write 'er will," Timmy concludes. "And without her fire she died of cold."

"That doesn't sound like it was written for children," Joseph says uneasily. "It's very disturbing, really."

"Hey," Timmy laughs, Joseph envisions his shit-eating grin. "It's what Scotch raised his kid with!"

Something horrible wrenches itself in his chest. "Scotch has a kid?"

"Fuck yeah. Lover-boy was even married, before."

"Before what?"

"Ain't none of your business, manger-boy," Timmy sneers. Pa chuckles, "awh, Timmy, it's not like he ain't gonna hear it soon. Poor bastard screams his whole damn backstory in his sleep, fitful rest it is."

"You don't have to tell me," _I don't want to know._ "Anyway, I wear ear-plugs to sleep. Most nights."

"That explains a lot," Quincey admits. "We don't really 'sleep'. Timmy likes to tell stories on bad nights and I teach him songs. We make the best of things here, for all we have."

"If you don't mind me asking," Joseph clears his throat, staring at his door. "What's... what's wrong with you?"

Quincey doesn't seem offended, nor surprised. "There wasn't anything. Not at first."

"We like to say that when the fuckers took his fingers, Quince'd left his brain in one!"

Joseph closes his eyes. "This place takes so much- does it give back anything?"

"A fucktonne of pain, 'suppose. And the drugs. But the drugs don't always help. They give the rough sleepers ambien, but it don't have any good effects other than bullshit 'rest'. Causes hallucinations and 'suicidal tendencies'. The fucktard in your cell offed himself as soon as he had the chance, lucky bastard."

"Once," Quincey starts, beguiled by memory. Joseph can nearly hear the smile in his voice. "I took a dose before I slept, and I saw the outside. It had a piano in its grass, and an audience in the sky..."

"And when the doctors arrived in the morning, Quince had cut his arm using a splinter from his own fucking table and painted damn piano keys on the wall!" Timmy cackles, recalling the incident just as fondly. "They screamed so loudly, the cowards!"

Joseph ignores the twisting in his stomach. "Did they bandage you up?"

"I don't remember," Quincey replies thoughtfully. "I think they must have, but I still have the scars."

"Of course you do," Timmy seems almost impressed. "You sliced all the way to bone!"

"I did."

"Fucking good going!"

Quincey's pride spills through his words, "I learned from the best."

"Harvey was pretty damn good, wasn't he?"

"Who?" Joseph finds himself enquiring. Something sparks in his mind, and he easily makes the connection. "Wait, was he the man who used to be in my cell?"

"Ab-so-fucking-lutely," Timmy confirms. "He owned that cell like a miner would gold. If there's blood in there it's his."

"He- he killed himself in this room?"

"Failed once, succeeded the next," Quincey says, sounding all too knowledgable. "He was very quiet though. Only Dennis really heard him. And the guards, when Harvey yelled at them to 'fuck themselves'."

Timmy snickers. "That was amazing," he admits. "Told them to 'fuck themselves cos I ain't gonna, bitches!' And stabbed himself in right in the jugular!"

"Timmy wanted to scream 'headshot', and he still thinks to this day that Harvey aimed for his throat to spite him."

"The asshole really did- cross my heart and shit, he's probably laughing down in hell."

Joseph glances around the cell, eyes catching on the smudged crimson. "How did it get on the wall?"

"I told you he was an ass," Timmy says smugly. "In his own dying moments he tried to make as much of a mess as possible. It was a fucking chore to clean."

"They made you clean it?" Joseph hears his voice splinter.

"I pissed off the wrong guards at the wrong time."

"And I was in my cell, as per usual," Quincey adds helpfully. "I was daydreaming about Chopin and what kind of puns would ensue with his name, and they told me I could go to my piano if I helped. I would've, anyway, but it did make it even more tempting. They lied, though, but one guard felt bad and gave me his hand sanitiser in apology."

"I told Quince he shoulda downed it," Timmy says accusingly. "But the jackass said it 'smelled too nice'."

"Like childhood," Quincey elaborates. He makes a light humming noise, appreciating the lost reminiscence. "Fresh strawberries and cream. I almost used it as a sauce, but I didn't want to waste it. The guard had to take it back, though. Said they'd hurt me if they found it with me."

"We think he had a fucking crush on Quince!" Timmy comments, dissolving into laughter. His father sniggers. "It was damn pathetic, but right amusing."

"Is the guard still here?"

"Innocent little Joseph... once they realised he wasn't a total asshole, they got rid of the guy for good. Quince gets down about it randomly- thinks it's all his fault."

"It is!" Quincey argues.

"It is," Dennis affirms. "B-But you shouldn't f-f-feel guilty for it, Quincey. The g-guard said it was w-w-worth it to meet you. A-At least you met y-y-your one..."

"Was he my one?" the pianist asks.

Timmy seems to think so. "The closest you'll get to it, I'd say."

"Oh," Quincey thinks for a moment. "Well, did you have a one, Joseph?"

Joseph swallows. "Yes. And a daughter."

"Scotch was the same!" Timmy recalls delightedly. "Called her his 'perfect little girl'. Misses her a lot."

"I miss my child too," Joseph tells him solemnly. "She didn't deserve this."

"She's not the one in the cell, fucktard. And seeing you're here for a reason, I'd say she's damn lucky for it."

Quincy sighs, suddenly weary. "Safer that way. They don't need us, Joseph. That's why we're here."

"It's a fucking dump," Timmy remarks, energy doused. He sounds almost cynical. "We're just the rats in'abiting it."

Joseph wonders who the cats are.

* * *

 _they hide in holes in the walls, masked by a heavy darkness. its weight collapses down on them, flooding down from the ceiling and in through each crack. it wants to drown them. crush them. break them. the space tightens, shoving body against body, until they force each other into bursts of compressed red. so who's at fault?_


	4. Chapter 4

**_Chapter 4: To Light a Flame in Hell_**

* * *

 _maybe he does 'love'. maybe it's not a lie. the spilling of dirtied blood is something more complicated than truth and fiction, rendering the world polluted and the people changed._

* * *

The grunt Scotch releases when he finally regains full consciousness is not particularly attractive, but Joseph can't blame him. No one sounds all that seductive while moaning ' _fuck- I'll skin them, flay their disgusting sheepskins and watch them suffer'_ through a drugged slur.

Perhaps Timmy thinks differently, because he sounds amazed. "Damn, Scotch, you sound like yourself again!" then, thinking for a moment, he adds, "Fucktard."

"Shut the fuck up, Tim," Scotch grumbles, not quite annoyed- rather, somewhat concerned. It doesn't fit his gruff exterior, but Joseph withholds his judgement. "Did they hurt you? Is Leslie back yet?"

"No and no," the disassociate tells him. "Quince had a breakdown though."

"Another?"

"Yeah." Quincey doesn't deny it, remaining silent. "I think he's ashamed. Fucking idiot."

Instead of continuing in his familiar mantra of cursing, Scotch merely sighs. "Quincey, you can't blame yourself for this. The only asshole at fault is that shitty doctor, who can't tell a man's eyeball from his other damn balls."

Timmy snickers. "That's because the bastard doesn't got any balls left, Scotch. Probably didn't have any in the first place," his tone drops. "Cowards."

Quincey inhales sharply and Scotch suddenly swears. "Quince," he says hurriedly, and Joseph hears him pad over to the wall nearest to the man. "Don't," his voice is harsh, but there's a tinge of softness to it. Pity, Joseph thinks. He doesn't want to imagine why. "They're not worth it."

"Of course they ain't fuckin' worth it," Dennis' father agrees, a dark bitterness lacing the words. "Deserve death. Deserve torture." A laugh. "Deserve to meet us without a damn taser to protect them pansies." Timmy confirms this sagely, "I like making cowards cry."

"I wish the strawberry man hadn't left," Quincey murmurs idly. Joseph's confusion dies when he recalls their conversation last night, and the kind guard Quincey had held in such high regard. Strawberry soap... it's been three days and Joseph can't remember what it's like to feel clean. "He made everything so very lovely. His love of Whitney Houston was even endearing. Only now though. It was annoying then."

"Fucker would sing 'I Wanna Dance with Somebody' under his breath," Timmy groans in remembrance. "Why the fuck did you remind me, Quince?"

"My most humble apologies," Quincey replies, but there's a smile to the line. "But don't you ever wanna dance with somebody..."

"Who loves you?" Joseph remembers, pausing to cringe lightly. Quincey laughs. "Absolutely."

Scotch lets out a tired breath, flopping against his mattress with a ' _pang_ ' of the springs. "Yeah," he mutters. "Don't we all." It's not a question, and Joseph bites his lip.

"My wife and I were arguing," he blurts out. He can't snatch the words back from the quiet, so he simply goes on. "When I was admitted. She thought I wasn't spending enough time at home, with our child, and I brought up something so _damn stupid_..."

"What?" Scotch asks quietly.

"Our daughter isn't mine," no one comments. "Bryony - my wife- she only told me when Calla was three... I mean, not that I'd leave her!" he's quick to reiterate. "I love her, but to think that she cheated on me..."

Predictably it's Scotch who speaks up, yet Joseph wonders why he expected him to. "You should forgive her," the man sounds painfully subdued. "Love her while you can. You probably did some shit to end up here, and if she'll stick it through it's because she loves you back. Don't leave her." He hesitates. "Please."

Joseph swallows. "I know. I know," he repeats. It occurs to him that he's really only trying to convince himself, but he wills the thought away.

"You'd better," Scotch growls, and Joseph hears his blankets twist in resignation. "It's still fucking early, and I don't know about you jackasses, but I found last night pretty damn noisy."

Timmy seems pleased. "At least we accomplished something, love."

* * *

Rest seems overrated in an asylum where it accumulates to form the majority of one's day. In the mist of dream, Joseph meets a man called Harvey, who approaches him with a dog-tired stagger. His throat is a red-pink blur of bloody gorges and hits that just missed their target. They introduce themselves and shake hands, in a mockery of decorum. The man is uninhibited as he explains how he stole a scalpel straight from his exasperated doctor's pocket, waiting until the frustrated authority left in a huff. He describes the difficulty of hitting his jugular in its exactness, laughing abashedly about how he'd always had 'an incredibly shitty aim'. Then Harvey reaches forward, a sudden seriousness in his empty eyes. He grips Joseph's arm, firm and genuine.

"You'll die here," the ghost promises. "Just like all the others."

It unnerves him enough upon rousing that he rises to sit up in the stiff bed, leaning against the cold headboard and resisting the alluring pull of sleep. He spends mornings like these thinking, and it's almost as though he's back at home, considering each insignificant detail of trivial matters. He ignores the important aspects of current situation, such as the fact that he's lying in a dead man's bed.

* * *

Jimenez visits later that day, and Leslie remains 'away'. Scotch hears him before Joseph does, and spits and swears in resentful accusation.

"The fuck is Leslie! Where did you take him?"

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about," the doctor says impassively, not even sparing the man a glance. The door to Joseph's cell slugs open without so much of a greeting, and Jimenez's gaze immediately finds _his_ bloodstain on the wall. Something like disgust flickers across his face, and Joseph flinches. He can't imagine how inhuman he must seem- violent and deranged, painting vehemence across the porcelain panels. "I see you've made do."

Joseph licks his dry lips, running a smoothing hand through his frenzied locks. "You get used to the blood at some point."

"Indeed?" Jimenez sounds doubtful, observing his attempts at 'grooming'. "Well, I'm not here for long, so my apologies. The staff are rather busy today-"

"With Leslie?"

A pause. "Your paranoia appears to be bothering you, Mr Oda. Fortunately, today you have finally been prescribed some aid. It should mute some of your more assertive symptoms." Joseph stares at the pills in the doctor's palm. They're a pinky dull, labelled by a scratchy black scrawl of 'Pali 9'. Drugs. His mind seethes with ways that he could avoid the unnecessary treatment, but Jimenez continues to watch him expectantly. "They're best taken with water, I'd say. If you have trouble swallowing you may use food, however I'd recommend only taking one pill a day. Not that I'll be leaving the box with you, of course."

"I don't need these."

The man is unimpressed. "If you want to improve, for the sake of your family, I'd advise you simply acquaint yourself with this hopefully temporary lifestyle." There's clear distaste in his voice, and an undercurrent of revulsion. " _You're so selfish_ ," Joseph recoils. His eyes widen as the doctor carries on, disdain blackening his tone. " _No wonder your wife couldn't stay loyal for long, you pathetic man._ "

"Fuck you!" he hears himself roar, and Jimenez rears back. "Fuck you and your nightmare of a hospital, I just want to leave!"

"Mr Oda-"

There's a darkness in the corner of his eyes, an inky form crawling toward the darkness. It's a theroid apparition of obsidian and stark white snow, with skeletal features and the air of an animal in hunt. _Hurt him,_ pleads something in Joseph's head. **_Make him feel like I do._**

* * *

 _He's seventeen again, shivering against the rooftop cold as his clothes stick to his sides. The rain is heavy, thrashing down upon them as though they're the only sinners left in this earth. Maybe they are._

 _He's blinded in the moment. His glasses blur against each lash of water, disfiguring his world into blues and greys and the brown of his best friend's eyes._

 _"Don't jump," escapes his blueing lips. The tremble to his tone comes with the frigid cool of a wet winter, and not the weakness climbing up his shaky spine._

 _The other boy freezes, turning to face him in full. His hair is scraggly and wild, but no more feral than his hickory eyes. His body, armed in muscle and strength, seems frail against the wind. His coat is of cedar, offering false height and temporary warmth. His skin is kissed by a sun that died long ago, and he mourns it still._

 _They don't know one another- not to the extent that he wishes they do. They recall the other's name, favourite colour, room number and diagnosis. He stands on the roof with the blessing of impermanence. The other, untamed boy, depending on a railing for solidity, will face such a verdict forever._

 _"At least," Joseph whispers, allowing the wind to carry his words into perennial. "Not without me."_

 _The animal grins._

* * *

They're both screaming, and it hurts Joseph's ears. He wants to reach out and cover them from the piercing sounds engulfing the room, but his hands seem lost to some void beyond his sight. The small cells swirls in an indistinct conundrum, morphing in and out of reality.

Little pink pills spawn like flowers on the colourless floor. The ground hazes into watery bland, feeding the blossoms until they grow red with gluttony and bloom in splatters of crimson- a colour resembling his wife's favourite lipgloss. It's only a kiss away, but Joseph turns his head. His lips are filthy, defiled by crude swears and angry cries.

"Don't speak about her!" echoes like a coarse wind through the forest of scarlet buds, which birth plashes of blushing butterflies. They spatter across the whitewash sky and weld against his skin, like stickers of flesh and bone and blood. His trembling fingers wrap around a loose flap, pulling away the label of pink tissue to reveal a dozen shades of rotting wine.

Everyone keeps screaming so he tears away the fleshy mask, leaving his limbs naked and empty. A needle enters his nude arm and everything falls to nothing.

* * *

He wakes from the nightmare under the blanket of a dozen bandages.

They took him from his cell to lay him in the hospital ward. The belts to restrain him remain untied beside him; he's too drugged to attempt escape. Narcotised, his arms feel heavy and soft when he tries to lift them, and they crash back to his sides.

Walls of cloth encircle him, a thin barricade between Joseph and the other patients. He wants to pull the fabric door away and bear witness to whatever hell lies behind it, but he cannot move.

The indignity that comes with forceful drugs is buried by the sudden shame that hits him, brassy and dissonant against anaesthetic's false calm. What the _fuck_ did he do? It's all anger and shock when he remembers, words echoing sharp from a mouth that never moved. Accusations from the air that he had blamed on the sketchy doctor- was any of it real?

Actuality has never been taken from him like this before- at least, not since he was young and foolish. This simple dislocation from reality startles him, however- jarringly so. How did it happen? He can't recall whether he took the pills, but perhaps if he had then the drugs had been to blame. He has no need for medication: maybe this turned its intended effects on an axis, swerving away from recovery and into an induced breakdown.

He likes this deviant reasoning most. It twists the story in his favour- claiming an object to be at fault while the people present merely played victim. It's an excuse, depraved and desperate, but Joseph is just stressed because _this is an asylum and was ab-so-fucking-lutely not in his contract!_ He'd thought the role of undercover-investigator was supposed to be that of an adventure, but all it's proved to be is a disenchanted venture into a god-forsaken madhouse.

He can remember when Brown first mentioned Mount Massive, commenting on 'rumoured cases of abuse' and 'suspicious activity' that sparked the detective's interest immediately. He'd had no qualms in pushing for details, and soon learned of the chary reputation the psychiatric hospital had earned for itself over the years. Brown recounted how it had always undeniably been one of the strongest corporations out there, subtly ruling over its media and political standing. Deranged killers, paranoid thieves and cannibals were sent there almost thoughtlessly, making it an easy choice for those too mad for prison. The variation in insanity was fascinating, if only somewhat disturbing. Brown told Joseph of how a man who'd begun facing schizophrenic delusions after the murder of his wife was then placed in a cell beside her killer. It sounded almost fictionally unethical, but it had been enough to intrigue Joseph into agreeing to investigate further.

Now the strain against the delirium surrounding him has left him in a hospital bed, and the medicine has restored him broken.

Alone, he stares at the bleached ceiling. There are no bloodstains here, and, if there once had been, they were cleansed with all the vigour necessary to polish sin. Regrets and exhaustion slow his heartbeat- the only constant in an agonised rapture.

He forces a vision of his family to mind, with the intent of a grounding comfort. It brings the opposite. The fluctuating of his breath becomes even more so uneven, balancing roughly with every racing thought. Bryony Oda has been the object of his affection for almost a decade, placing him on a pedestal as though something to be glorified. He's too perfect, she begs with him whenever she feels like she's not enough. She calls him flawless, regarding him as a marble statue, glossy and prodigious. But Joseph is a sculpture cracked. Her tears fill each fissure and harden like ice, mechanically shattering him in 'natural' pretence. He takes an unexpected trip down derelict memory lane, reminiscing tenderly on the day Bryony had admitted their daughter was not his in blood.

"You're the quintessential husband, Jo," she'd promised through her tears, as if it would console him. "I couldn't compare, I'm so sorry. I made such a terrible mistake..."

The words had struck him like a whip, leaving gaudy scars in the 'happily ever after' he had made for himself.

"Am I not good enough?" He had whispered then, thinking about the little girl cuddled up in her princess-pink bed just a room away. "Did- did I do something wrong?"

"No, Joseph!" she choked out, inhaling a sharp breath through her sobs. "Too good, love... you were just too good..."

It was a cruel justification that drowned out his own despondency. Her weeping grew louder and hurt against his feeble ears as he stood still, perplexed in betrayal and sickened by his own silence.

"Please," he said as she glanced up, watching him with all the love and sadness in the world in her eyes. They were blue, like a rainy sky on a cold day, and he could hardly bring himself to look at them. "Stop crying."

He forgave her to the extent that a deceived heart could, continuing to love her when it seemed her own affections had dissolved with time to veneration. She swore each night in endless prayer that she 'loved him', consistently seeking reconciliation in the communion of his kiss. It was no more perfect a marriage than Joseph was a man, but both refused to change.

Now, Bryony is alone and Joseph feels like a monster. It's a liberating ferity that absolves the error of lovelessness and replaces it with sentimental memory, amending faux-loneliness into a casual truth. The wrongs committed may have been forgivable, but that didn't make them right.

His throat burns now, as he longs for drink and the haze that comes with it. He twitches his fingers experimentally, allowing motion into the appendages and feeling his breath grind into bristled ache as he notices the dry sangria beneath his nails.

How much longer will he be trapped here? How long has it been- mere days? Or was he unconscious long, confined in his own mind and solitude?

The medication in his system dulls into a familiar ache, permitting him to move his hands until his only his palms were facing him. He doesn't want to see any more blood today (or ever again), and tries to shut his eyes and numb his mind to match his insensate body. Pacified by worn-out forbearance, he almost convinces himself that he can appreciate morbid repose.

The sound of approaching footsteps halts his pitch to idleness, though he doesn't dare blink to examine looming doctors. He's completely inanimate (an effortless addition to his play of sleep, seeing how he can't move anyhow), and softens his breath into calm.

"- dead?" one is saying, surprise raising his voice into a high-pitched pain. The silence as affirmation, he curses. "Fuck, the poor man."

"Didn't expect it," his friend sighs ruefully, quiet in comparison. "The patient had only ever shown slight signs of violence- we thought he'd be safe without company."

"We were damn wrong then. Are they moving the variant to the prison block?"

"The man's not a variant," the other explains wearily as they stop before Joseph's section. "He's not booked for experimentation for months, even."

"The fuck are we going to do?" one cries out without restraint. "Shit, this is bad."

"They're planning on re-scheduling it," his companion says drily.

His partner splutters indignantly, "they'd better! I mean- fuck, Jimenez- Jimenez was one of the best of us..."

Joseph ignores the pulsing of his heart as they draw back the curtains encasing his bed. _No,_ he thinks desperately, chest contracting in wretched abhorrence. _Please, please, don't do this to me-_

The previously composed man lets out a barking laugh, carefully camouflaging the nausea in the back of his throat. "This-" he declares, tone tainted with funereal distaste. "Oh _this,_ is what a murderer looks like."

* * *

 _believe in god all you want, but he doesn't believe in you. he resides somewhere in the sky, far above in what you call 'heaven'. but then, in contrast, the blessed air's antithesis **\- earth -** must be hell, right? you were born to burn and crumble, and we'll bring you to your judgement. checkmate. _


End file.
